John woke to pain.

  Not sharp—dull, slow, grinding pain that crept through every nerve like a warning siren. His limbs felt weighted, his breath shallow. He blinked. Once. Twice. The HUD shimmered dimly at the edge of his vision.

  [HP: 10/124] – Status: Bleeding]

  A pulsing red icon blinked. Each beat is a countdown.

  He tried to move—his body screamed in protest. Everything hurt. His ribs were on fire. His arms refused to cooperate. He lay twisted in the grass at the edge of the clearing, blood soaking into the dirt beneath him.

  Thorin lay motionless nearby.

  Kaia was gone.

  Gone.

  John’s throat tightened. No scream came out. No strength to give voice to the panic ripping through his chest.

  Another blink.

  [HP: 2/124]

  His fingers twitched, fumbling across the ground. Searching. Reaching into his lunchbox bag, they landed on something soft.

  Fabric.

  He curled his hand around it, recognizing the feel before his vision even registered it.

  The furoshiki. The lunchbox cloth.

  The one his wife gave him. A goofy little thing, bright red with a smiling onigiri print. She said it was “too cute not to use.” He’d carried his lunch in it every day for six years. When the dungeon twisted his gear into RPG junk, it had come along too. No bonus stats. No magical traits. Just… his.

  A piece of home.

  Of her.

  John felt something lodge in his chest—emotion tightening like a knot. He pressed the cloth to his chest, dirt and blood smearing across its faded print.

  He thought of her. Of the way she’d fussed over packing him healthy lunches. Of the little notes she sometimes left—drawn smiley faces, quick I-love-yous, inside jokes. Her arms wrapped around him when he was too tired to keep going.

  And then—Rosie.

  His daughter, hair wild, riding her bike on that first camping trip. She had been so excited, demanding they hike every trail, fish every stream, hang every hammock. She’d insisted on helping pitch the tent. Even helped cook. Burned the sausages and laughed like it was the best thing in the world.

  John’s eyes welled with tears.

  He hadn’t thought about that trip in weeks. Maybe months. But now, in the dirt, nearly dead… it was there. Real. Bright. His reason.

  He pulled out the cloth wrap, but it slipped through his fingers.

  “Come on,” he croaked. “Don’t… don’t do this. Not here.”

  He caught the wrap again. Tore it with his teeth. Wrapped it clumsily around his bleeding side, using the furoshiki to try to stop the bleeding effect.

  [Improvised Bandage Applied – Bleeding: Stopped]

  The icon blinked yellow. His HP stopped falling.

  John slumped back. Exhausted. Barely conscious. But alive.

  He stared at the sky overhead, clouds drifting peacefully as if the world hadn’t just broken apart.

  “I’m coming home,” he whispered. “No matter what.”

  ***

  John’s vision steadied slowly, like glass clearing after a storm. His ribs ached. His hands shook. But he was breathing. He was alive.

  He forced himself to sit upright. Dirt clung to his skin. Blood—some dried, some still warm—streaked his clothes. The trees around him were quiet, the breeze soft. No movement. No threat.

  But something was missing.

  Thorin.

  John turned, scanning the grass until he spotted a slumped figure near the tree line. A familiar shock of red hair. Armor scorched and broken. Limbs askew in a way that made his stomach twist.

  “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.”

  He staggered to his feet, nearly falling, and half-limped, half-crawled his way over. Each step drew a groan from his bones. His voice came out rough. Pleading.

  “Thorin… Come on, man. It’s over. We made it. You can get up now. We’ve still got work to do. Gotta find Kaia. Gotta keep moving.”

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  He reached his friend’s side and dropped to his knees.

  Thorin didn’t move.

  John pressed two fingers to his neck. No pulse. His chest didn’t rise. The warmth was fading fast.

  “No…” John’s throat tightened. “Don’t you dare.”

  He pressed again, harder, checked for breath, and tried shaking him.

  Nothing.

  Grief hit like a hammer. All the rage, all the helplessness boiled to the surface in an instant. He shouted—a broken, guttural cry—and slammed his fists into the earth beside Thorin’s body.

  “I was right there! I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve—”

  He stopped. His hand brushed against something in his inventory pouch. Small. Round. Cold.

  The potion.

  Eyes wide, he fumbled it out—a glass vial swirling with soft, golden light.

  The Resurrection Elixir. Looted from the crystal chamber two floors ago. One use. He hadn’t even thought about it until now.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  He uncorked it with shaking fingers and lifted Thorin’s head. His friend’s face was pale, lips tinged with blue.

  “Come on, you stubborn bastard.”

  John poured the liquid between Thorin’s lips.

  For a moment—nothing.

  Then the glow of the potion flared, pulsing once as it vanished into his body.

  A soft chime echoed in John’s ear.

  [Potion of Resurrection Consumed – Target Revived]

  [Caution: Resurrection Elixirs are one-use only. This character may not be revived again.]

  Thorin’s chest rose with a ragged gasp.

  John almost dropped him.

  He caught his friend’s weight and leaned in close, breath held.

  Thorin didn’t open his eyes. His breathing was shallow, but steady. Color began to return to his skin.

  John sat back, overwhelmed. Relief washed over him like a tidal wave. His hands trembled again—but now for a different reason.

  He reached up and covered his face. “Thank the gods…”

  But a line from the system message stuck in his head.

  Only once.

  “No pressure,” he muttered to the unconscious Thorin. “No more dying, alright? That was your freebie.”

  He slumped beside him in the grass, staring up at the drifting clouds above.

  “We’ll get her back,” he said quietly. “I don’t care what it takes. We’ll get Kaia. And then we’re going home.”

  ***

  John grunted as he heaved Thorin onto his shoulders.

  The man was built like a damn ox. Heavy with muscle and plated in armor—even dented and bloodied, it felt like hauling a forge anvil through mud. John’s knees nearly buckled, but he gritted his teeth and took the first step.

  [Encumbrance Warning: You are Overencumbered.]

  [Stamina Drain Increased by 300%. Movement Speed Reduced.]

  “Oh, shut up,” John muttered, waving the glowing red notifications away. “I’ll delete your whole HUD if you keep talking.”

  His feet sank into the grass with each step. Every muscle screamed at him. But he walked.

  Just get to the next tree, he told himself. That one. With the moss on the left side. That’s the break tree.

  When he reached it, he didn’t stop. He picked another. A thicker trunk, twenty paces ahead. That one’s a better spot anyway. Next break.

  Then another.

  And another.

  His world shrank to a tunnel of pain and repetition. One boot in front of the other. Every breath felt like swallowing glass. His arms ached from balancing Thorin. His legs wanted to give up.

  The sun dipped toward the horizon. The forest changed from green to gold to gray.

  Still, he walked.

  Just one more tree.

  He didn’t know how long it had been when his knees finally gave out.

  The world tilted. He fell sideways and landed hard, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs. Thorin’s body rolled beside him, motionless but still breathing.

  John lay there, wheezing into the dirt.

  The notifications returned.

  [Stamina: 2%]

  [Movement Disabled. Rest Recommended.]

  “You think?” he rasped, barely able to raise a middle finger at the glowing prompt.

  The world blurred at the edges. His limbs went slack.

  He closed his eyes.

  I can’t stop.

  But he did. For a while.

  John woke up sometime later. His body felt numb. His hands were shaking. The sky was darker now, stars just beginning to peek through the fading light.

  He pushed himself upright with a groan.

  Thorin was still beside him. Still alive. Still breathing.

  John dragged himself upright and grabbed Thorin again.

  “I said we’re getting to Bjornfell,” he whispered. “And I meant it.”

  He lifted him once more—this time with a bit more ease.

  A chime echoed softly in his ear.

  [Trait Acquired: Hardened Back – +10% Carry Weight Capacity]

  [Skill Increased: Endurance (Passive) – Lv. 3 → Lv. 4]

  [Stamina Drain Penalty Reduced to 200%.]

  John blinked, surprised. “Well look at that,” he muttered. “Suffering is the best teacher.”

  He started walking again.

  It didn’t feel easier. But he didn’t stop.

  He limped past familiar trees. Past the stream where Kaia had filled their flasks. Past the hill where they’d fought that first goblin.

  The sky had turned deep blue by the time the outer lanterns of Bjornfell came into view.

  He didn’t remember the last part clearly—just that someone shouted, and then someone else ran ahead to the healer’s hut.

  He staggered through the gates, clutching Thorin like a lifeline.

  He collapsed again on the steps outside the healer’s cottage.

  The last thing he saw was the door opening, and a pair of hands reaching down to lift Thorin from his back.

  Then—darkness.

  ***

  John woke to the smell of herbs and boiled linen.

  For a moment, he thought he was back in the inn after that first goblin job—the one where he’d earned enough coin to sleep in a bed again. But then the pain returned, blooming in his ribs like fireworks. Every muscle screamed with memory.

  He groaned.

  “You’re awake,” a voice said, low and steady. A man, mid-fifties, hair graying at the temples, robes marked with green stitching, stepped into view. “I was beginning to wonder if you were just very committed to a nap.”

  “Not the worst idea I’ve heard,” John rasped. He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it.

  “Careful.” The healer moved to his side and offered a steadying hand. “You’re lucky to be alive. Both of you.”

  John blinked, alarmed. “Thorin—”

  “He’s alive,” the man said quickly. “Unconscious. But stable. Bruised half to death, broken ribs, crushed shoulder. Should’ve died. But…”

  He glanced at John, brow furrowed. “He didn’t.”

  John slumped back slightly. “Yeah. He did. But he got over it.”

  The healer gave him a look. “I don’t even want to know.”

  John let out a breath and swung his legs over the side of the cot. “Alright. Thanks for the patch job. I’ve gotta go.”

  “You should be in bed for three more days,” the healer said, stepping in front of him. “At least.”

  John grinned, stretching slowly. “No time for rest, Dr. Jones. I’ve got to figure out how to kill a black knight and rescue my friend.”

  The healer frowned. “Black knights are often weak to certain types of poisons.”

  John froze. “Wait, what?”

  The healer blinked. “What?”

  “You just… dropped the exact tip I needed like an RPG quest-giver,” John said, eyes lighting up. “Black knight. Poison weakness. That’s so good.”

  The healer’s mouth opened, then closed again. “…It’s a textbook weakness. You asked—”

  “I didn’t ask! But you answered! And that’s beautiful.”

  John grabbed his gear and started strapping on his daggers, favoring his side as he moved. His body still ached, but the pain felt distant now—background noise to his newly rekindled purpose.

  “Where are you going?” the healer asked.

  John tossed a grateful smile over his shoulder. “Im going to go find and infiltrate a thieves den, take the poisons skill book, track down a black knight that has a two day lead on me and kill that ugle son of a bitch.”

  The healer stared. “That's very specific?”

  “I read the quest log,” John said. “Thanks again.”

  He stepped over to Thorin’s cot. His friend lay there, pale but breathing, wrapped in clean bandages.

  John patted him lightly on the leg. “Stop lying about. We’ve got a white mage to rescue.”

  Then he turned and walked out the door.

  ***

  John lingered outside the warped wooden door of The Rusted Coin. The alley smelled like stale beer and regret, staring at the chipped paint that peeled like dead skin from its frame. The bar slouched against the crumbling stone wall, as if it shared the exhaustion of those who stumbled through its doors. A faint hum of muffled voices seeped through the cracks, just loud enough to remind him of what waited inside.

  Kaia and Thorin were counting on him.

  He exhaled, brushing dirt off his flamingo-patterned shirt. "Alright," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Game face."

  John shoved the door open hard enough to rattle the hinges. The dull hum of conversation died instantly, dozens of eyes locking onto him like wolves sniffing fresh meat.

  He grinned. "Drinks are on me!"

  Mouths tightened. A few men exchanged glances, sizing him up. John swaggered in, loud enough to fill the sudden void of silence.

  "You should've seen the score! Biggest damn haul in weeks." He clapped his palm against his bulging coin pouch, letting the gold inside jingle enticingly. "Took half a dozen bandits out by myself. Almost feel bad for 'em."

  He didn’t.

  Sliding onto a creaking barstool, John slapped a handful of gold down on the counter. The barkeep—a gaunt, hollow-cheeked man didn't react beyond the faintest twitch of his eye.

  "Your finest," John said, waving at the shelf behind the bar. "Whatever's so overpriced it makes poor men cry."

  The Barkeep, Grimnar, moved with the careful grace of someone who’d seen too much and cared too little. A thick amber liquid filled the glass in front of John, dark as honey, smooth as silk. John knocked it back in one long gulp, slamming the empty glass down loud enough to echo.

  "Damn! Tastes like gold. Almost as good as the coin I’ll be swimming in tonight."

  A few patrons glanced at one another. Two in the far corner hadn’t stopped watching him since he walked in. Shadows that tried too hard to blend in.

  Perfect.

  John stretched with exaggerated sloppiness, faking a yawn. "Alright, time to turn in. Can’t spend gold if you pass out drunk, right?"

  Grimnar’s blank eyes followed him, but the old man didn’t say a word. John tossed another coin onto the counter—twice what the drink was worth—and sauntered toward the door, letting the heavy sack of gold sway at his hip.

  He didn’t bother looking back.

  The air cooled the moment he stepped outside. The warped door groaned shut behind him, cutting off the bar’s flickering light. Footsteps followed a beat later. Steady. Unhurried.

  John turned down a narrow alley that twisted out of sight. Stone walls loomed close, suffocating. His footsteps echoed against damp cobblestones as he slowed near the dead end.

  The shadows pooled behind him. Two shapes stepped into the alleyway’s mouth, blocking his exit.

  John’s lips curled into a smile.

  "Gentlemen," he said, loosening the string on his coin pouch. "I was hoping you’d follow."